Weakened Contemplations
by SMS13
Summary: I'm not good at summaries, so you'll just have to read. You won't regret reading it, at least I hope not.
1. Default Chapter

Author's Notes: No clue where this is coming from. I recieved a push from Kat to work on it, and well it escaladed from one short paragraph to all these random ramblings. If you guys like it, I'll continue it, if not I'm going to finish it off for myself but not post it. I don't know. I hope you like it. If you want to talk to me or drop me a line my email is ellaspyrka@yahoo.com and my AIM screenname is Love Among Ruin. And of course I have to say thanks to Kat, cause without her, I think I would have slowly slipped away in my writing abilities.   
  
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She gazed out the window at the empty street. A streetlight blinked on and off, deciding whether to shine or burn out. It had eventually lost the battle and the street was dark, except for the full moon that cast an eerie glow upon the window and trees. She was cold, way too cold for time of the year. She pulled her sleeves so they covered her fingers, stretching out the material. She could almost hear her mother yelling at her to stop doing that. That she weakened the threads. She didn't care at that particular moment. She wrapped her arms around herself, searching for some form of radiant warmth. She hadn't been able to sleep lately. So much had happened in the last few days, and she hadn't had time to fully think about it until tonight. Walking towards the couch, she put her foot underneath her, and pulled her other foot up towards her chest, forming a ball. It was a usual position for her, and she felt comfortable. It was like a shield, something that would protect her if the worst of the world came running towards her. She ran her hands through her hair, her roots beginning to show, and the many colors of the dye and highlights beginning to fade. As soon as she pulled her hand out, a few strands of hair came along, intertwined with her fingers. She shook off the loose strands and resumed her position with her hands around her legs.   
  
She had never meant for things to come to this point, to end like this. Every single day that he had been gone, all she thought of was him. Whether he was okay, happy, safe. But he came back looking worse than ever. Those eyes that had once held so much spark were dull and empty. He had seen the worst of humanity and only came out weaker, more fragile. Like it was his fault the world was so cold and empty, full of hatred and deceit. He probably blamed himself as well. That was just the type of person he was. She could almost see him, his dark chocolate brown eyes, his dark auburn hair, his tall, slender body, slaving away just to make a difference in a single life. Yet he hadn't realized the one most in need was at home. She had needed him. Dependency was an evil thing. She couldn't go on. They had everything they had every needed: each other. And lost it. Somehow. The lightning rattled her out of her contemplations, the blast of silver casting the deathly faint city a ray of promise. But it was of no comfort to her. One of the world's beauties and miracles, was also one of the most destructive forces ever. It could set fire to a little patch of land, which grows, no control. No way to tell it where to go, or how to behave. It can never be used to advantage, tallying up the losses, second after second. Something so simple, so natural, intended to do harm. Everything is intended to hurt, to cause suffering at one point or another. It may not be for everyone, but no one has lived without being hurt by something imperceptible. The sun, a perfect choice. It nourishes the world, it provides energy for plants to grow, making the food chain run its course. But it can also kill. Too much sun, dries out land, prevents it from feeding the millions of starving people in those countries. Africa.   
  
The thought skimmed her mind. Never had she thought of the country before. It was just a few colors on a map, an exotic place far away, that she would never visit, nor cared to for that matter. She had heard the stories, seen the pictures, yet it had never moved her. It was a country like any other, with its problems, with a government that didn't give a damn about its people. Yet the world wasn't entirely like her little sanctuary in Chicago. It was worse. People died on street corners, ripped away from their families, their loved ones, their children. No control over what happened, the guns held the control. People murdered, bodies thrown into piles and burned. A simple way to get rid of the evidence. No sure reason why they were killed, the one thing that will never change. From country to country, century to century. People wanting to play god, deciding when to punish, when to kill. A chill ran up and down her spine. He could have been killed. The gun to his head. Why hadn't she listened more. Why hadn't she cared more. But there is only so much listening and caring can do sometimes. She can try to listen, to care, but it doesn't help the dying man on the gurney in front of her, nor does is help the ache she feels when he's gone. Life is like a stream. It starts out slowly, moving through gentle ponds and lakes, taking its time. It gains intensity, velocity, as it cascades through mountains and rapids. It reaches its highest point, the climax, and goes plummeting down into the ocean, where it disperses. It isn't noticed when it enters, nor will it ever leave. It's trapped. Just like every human being will be one day, except it will be under six feet of cold, wet earth.   
  
She watched the candle on her table slowly burn out. The long winding-sheet of the candle had far too long left a glow upon her. Everything will burn out one day, nothing is immortal. Except for pain. It can surpass all time lines and generations. It's the first emotion man felt and it will be the one he takes to his grave. She eased her nimble body off the heavy sofa, her feet following the normal rhythm and steps she had done for years. There is no point in trying to be happy, happiness is a lie. A lie people tell themselves to survive every day, they work, they strive for more. Or maybe its just the people here. Money. Money is happiness. Money is suffering. Everyone tells themselves they work harder each day to survive, when its not the truth. They work because they think they will gain happiness. There might be some contentment in a job well done, but you miss the important things. The forgotten birthdays or the unsung lullabies at night. The stolen lovers kiss behind a locked door, or a simple night alone. And you will never gain it back, a second chance to change what you have done. The plot of many movies, but it's not reality. Everything you miss, you miss once and for all. Every mistake you make, you make it for eternity. It can never be erased, nor forgotten. It will haunt you in the back of your mind when you are alone at night, listening to the soft patter of rain against the window. The things you could have done, the way you could have lived your life for the better. You can't change it.   
  
She can't change. The qualities she grew up with, have been passed from generation to generation, mixed and mingled, yet still holding strong. She'll never be attractive or alluring. She'll never be headstrong, outgoing, or optimistic. They say you decide who you are. You don't. It is decided long before you are even conceived. The worst traits are always passed down, a reminder of your history. You cannot forget it. You are forced every day to remember it. Change isn't possible. People never change. Attitudes, obsessions, maturity develop. But not change. Once something is a part of you, it stays with you. No matter what masks you try to put on it, or how you try to hide it, it will be there. It will haunt you. It engulfs you and controls your life. So what's the point of trying to change? It's not worth the effort. It's like a bad habit. You think you've gotten rid of it, yet sometime you will become vulnerable. You won't realize when or where, but it will attack you, and you give in, unknowing. A bad habit, as she poor the blood red wine into the gleaming glass. A drink of delicacy, of flavor. Of death. The same color, the same flavor. Centuries of pain and suffering have all been toasted with the liquid. She just adds another occasion to the list. Something so simple can become so obsessive. It prevents you from functioning, from breathing, from living. It controls your every waking moment. All you can think of is that clear liquid, or that tan elixir. And when it touches your lips, the burn as it passes down your throat, all your problems seem miles away, and all you want is more. And you can never have enough. You will never be completely filled. Ever. 


	2. Part 2

There will always be that hole, that opening, that weakness pulls though. You doubt yourself once and the hole gets bigger, until it engulfs you. You don't trust yourself. Everything you worked for, your accomplishments, dreams, everything goes through that black hole. Never to be seen again, you give them up. Sometimes you shouldn't give up. She shouldn't have. But what choice was there? Your whole life you are forced to be something, to live the model of society. But who decides what is right or wrong? There are certain morals that you have to uphold, that surpassed through the generations, and other that go in and out of fashion. Certain labels that you are given, doctors, lawyers, buisnessmen: succeeded. Nurses, teachers, accountants: could do better. Mothers, wives, clerks, cooks: failures. Of course no one will tell you this to your face. It's what they think inside thier minds that is deadly. They disregard you, know how far they can push you. Just like you would treat a person that is dying. You know he is dying, and suddenly he's already gone. The glances, the stares. They just want to live the rest of their days as normally as possible. But they don't. They die thinking of how people treated them before. How kind, yet unkind they were. But labels can be misleading. Who knew that the doctor that saved your life was high on narcotics? Or the nurse that treated you today was getting over a major hangover? How would you know if the president was making rash decision while being under the influence of something? No one knows. And if they do find out, suddenly your treated differently. They avoid you at all costs, but will not say anything to your face. They lie.   
  
The world is a lie. Nothing has ever been truth. From the first day babies are born, their parents cannot hold in their joy, and their hopes for them. Yet those hopes are false ones, they have no clue what's going to come out of their handsome boy or gorgeous girl. They struggle within themselves to overcome these fears, and end up lying to themselves. Lying to the child. You can be anything you want to be. No you can't. Sometimes families are so poor, they can barely put food on the table, much less support a child through college. Or even high school. The sky is the limit. Another lie. What if you can't make it because its not in you? Some people are just not meant to be lawyers, or doctors. Some people do not have it in them, no matter how much they try. Because they can't care. They are self-centered and selfish. People can be so selfish sometimes. Selfishness isn't a bad trait. It secures that you might get what you want, but other times it can cause so much heartbreak. You have to think about someone else for a change. Someone that might be screaming for you to stay, to come back and to talk. Of course he had a good reason not to. Who would want a person that is so screwed up, who cannot keep her own life together for a few days? She plays with the glass in her hand, tempting her in to the sweet taste of forgotten dreams. She hasn't taken a sip. Whether its willingness not to, or a sudden force pushing her to. The liquid twists around and around, like a whirpool of blood. A mixture of blood and water going down that kitchen sink, finding a way to ease the hurt. Everyone has their own way of dealing. Some take a more physical route. Others dwell in their own self misery. She was one of those others. Not purposely, not by choice. What would happen if she burdened someone? She would become one of those people that is looked down upon. The thoughts running through different heads. No, silence is virtue. Silence is murder. Wasn't that the beginning of the end? Silence? You can never talk enough. There is no possible way. It doesn't necessarily mean that what is being said is meaningful. But it's being said. Once the talking stops, even if its for a second, the coming apart begins. Both realize there is nothing left to talk about, nothing to laugh about, nothing. But its not true. There is always something. It just needs time to come out. And the longer the silence continues, the more time you have to push away. Time. Time can destory or rebuild. Once a second passes, it passes forever. Yet what if you go back to a country, on a trip, and you gain eight hours? Does that count? Is that time travel? No. You lived your moment. You can never go back and undo what you've done. It's permanent, like a scar. There will always be that faded skin, that place of delicacy on your perfect flesh. Doesn't matter if its from a fall at age ten or a stab wound at age twenty nine. It's still there. A permanent reminder of one time you screwed up and did something. Even if it was an accident. If wasn't your fault. You still look at it and blame yourself. She places the glass on the table, a high pitch echo going through the apartment as if in a cave. A dark, deserted cave with pitch blackness and nothing else. You have to follow your instincts, as bad and worn out as they may be. As in life. She shouldn't have pushed him away. The echo of the glass against the table like the sound of his keys falling into the dish.   
  
Falling. That's all that happens from the first day you step out into the world. You fall, and no one is there to catch you, to help you. You are on your own. Until may find someone who will hold you, they won't necessarily help you up, but they won't let you hit bottom. Sometimes they come into lives in secret. And when its all said and done, you finally figure out, you're back into that constant decent into hell, by yourself. She's by herself. She let him fall. Her head eases its way into her hands. It's heavy with sleepless nights, and overworked days. Yet the days had always been overworked, and the nights restful, pleasent, warm. A vauge memory that now faded away. All memories fade with time. Maybe these will too. It is clear for a while, then it disappears, and as you near your hour of death, everything that happened goes flooding back. Missed oppurtunities, one more I love you that could have been said. One I love you at all.   
  
Words mean nothing, emotions and feeling everything. How easy is it for someone to say I love you and not mean it? Words aren't always everything. You can feel more in a second, than with a lifetime of words. Words were made up, different languages, not sharing common ground. So why should words be so important? Because they let you into the mind of someone else. And when those words are gone. They are forever erased. But they should have been said. She should have told him. She should have told him the truth. The truth is never as easy as it seems. It can be hidden and covered up and twisted in so many ways. But the honest truth. It takes courage that is impossible to find. Unless you find it in yourself. She doesn't know who she is anymore. Lost. The world is lost. Never knowing where the next turn is going to be, where you are going to find yourself. Turn of events, surprises, a single shot, a split second decision, a turn. It's over. You can't plan your life out. You never know when its going to end. And those words that you had wanted to say never come out, those plans you had in the back of your mind go under with you. Regrets that never cease. Stupid regrets. Three simple words could have changed the whole stretch of time. Yet they will never come out. Neither will her tears. Both being held back by force, a sign of weakness, of humanity. No. Never cry over a loss. It's her own fault she lost him. She should start blaming herself. Not crying. It will do no good now anyway. Crying never does any good. You only cry after something happens. The purest example of human instability. A sigh escapes her, tears still welding in her dark brown eyes. She retreats from the sofa, more memories flooding back to her. She's close to hitting rock bottom. Hard. Painfully hard. She'll never have another chance. She treads her way back to the window, the glass being picked up as she goes. Her reflection stares back at her. Hate. Abhorrence. Abomination. Anathema. Antipathy. Detestation. Disgust. Loathing. Repulsion. Resentment. Revulsion. Scorn. Hate. Hate for the person starring back at her. Hate for what she had done, who she had become. Who she will never be. She takes the wine, spinning it again. She sips it, letting the taste linger on her lips for a second. She takes it, swollowing the fire, whole. No need to sense it, just feel the aftermath. The letting go of the world for that one moment. She looks back at herself. A mistake. She was a mistake. She shouldn't have been born. She places the glass down silently on the ledge, it can wait until morning. Another look out the window, at the lonely and empty streets below.   
  
"I love you, John."   
  
Her voice cracks and breaks. The lamp goes off and she makes her way to the bedroom. Tomorrow is another day, but tomorrow isn't always better than yesterday. The only sound that echoes through the apartment is the sound of the clock ticking, letting her know of more lost causes and wasted dreams. He's gone. She lost him forever. 


End file.
